The Master of Verona

by David Blixt

  Astride this magnificent piece of horseflesh sat Marsilio da Carrara, bolt upright. Beneath the saddle, the caparison was starched a stainless, expensive white. With his blinding hues, Carrara stood out white as snow against the furs and the cloaks around him.

  "Showy son of a bitch," muttered Mariotto.

  "Hope that thing bolts right out from under him," spat Antony.

  Pietro felt Carrara's eyes sweep over to him. Forcing himself to ignore the Paduan's noxious presence, Pietro continued whispering names in his mount's ear. "Caesar? Augustus. Nero!" Not a twitch.

  Tullio arranged the riders in front of the eastern balcony in five rows. Each row held ten men except for the last, which held eight. High above, Pietro saw Cangrande beckon Dante up to join him in the front row of watchers. Women were no longer in evidence, though young Mastino and Alberto remained poised at the edge of their seats. Pietro was secretly crestfallen. He'd desired Katerina to see him ride. Perhaps she would have waved. I should have asked for a token. Something dipped in lavender.

  Dante whispered something to the Capitano, who instantly burst out laughing. At his side Bailardino howled. He beckoned Monsignor Montecchio and Monsignor Capecelatro forward, demanding the poet repeat his joke. Capecelatro looked offended but recovered himself quickly and chuckled. Lord Montecchio smiled wanly, his eyes furrowed in thought. Bailardino was still clutching his sides. O God. What did he say now?

  The mirthful Cangrande stood and spread his arms wide. "Riders! On this Holy Day you are racing not for money or fame, but for the honour of your city! To win, you must all use your heads as well as your horses! And remember, those you ride against are your fellows, your friends! This is sport, not war! Do not mistake the two!" There were grim chuckles among the more experienced riders.

  Pietro patted his horse. "Cicero? Socrates? Ptolemy?" He was stuck in a classical rut. He tried other legends. "Merlin? Lancelot. Galahad."

  Above, Cangrande continued speaking in his public voice. "You will exit the western gates of the Arena and turn right! After that, the track is marked by crimson flags!"

  Crimson! Of the many differently coloured flags lining the streets, every rider fixed that colour in his mind. "Follow the flags, wherever they may lead, and you will be brought back here." The riders shifted, anxious to start, and the Scaliger held up a forestalling hand. "There is a twist this year. I have decided to lengthen the routes of both the horse race and the footrace. With the footrace that was easy enough. But for the horse Palio, I created a double route. You must ride the track twice, thus doubling the distance from four to eight miles. It has been the trend of the past few years that the fastest horse wins. A quick steed will no longer assure victory. You must rest your horses, husband their strength for the second half of the race." Cangrande's blue eyes twinkled. "I have also a few surprises for you. To be sure you truly enjoy them, you will pass through them twice!"

  There was a little nervous chatter as the riders quickly rethought their strategies. In this, Pietro was far ahead of them. He had no prepared strategy for winning. He was just going to ride hard and see what happened. In some ways, the double lap would be an advantage for him. Wrong turns could be avoided the second time around. "Aries. Ganymede. Bucephalous." He'd returned to the classics. Still no name roused a response from the horse. "Not Phaeton, I hope."

  The Scaliger gestured to his Grand Butler. Under the command of the steward, the forty-eight men turned about, facing away from the Capitano's balcony. Now they were all aimed for the west end, with the row of eight riders in the front. Pietro saw Mari and Antony close to the center of the second line from the front. It was a risky position. They would either get out the gate quickly or else be trapped in the crush.

  Having lined up closest to the Capitano, Pietro was now on the far right of the rear line. His first challenge would be getting his horse through the arch as nearly fifty horses vied with him to squeeze through an opening that was only wide enough for six.

  "Venus — no, sorry, you're not a Venus, are you, boy? Cupid. Vulcan. Hermes?" The palfrey shook his head in irritation. Pietro patted the mane, eyes on the crimson flag in Tullio d'Isola's hand.

  The crimson cloth became a downward blur and a cheer rose up, human and animal voices shrieking together as spurs drove home. All five lines lurched forward. The Palio was under way!

  "Go go go!" The palfrey was well trained. At the barest touch of Pietro's spurs it bounded forward. Already the front line of riders was entering the arch of the tunnel. Among the furs and cloaks of these could be seen the bright white of Marsilio's doublet. The Paduan almost fell out of his courser's saddle, righting himself just in time for the stone archway to miss his head. Then he was lost in shadow. A shame he wasn't trampled.

  But Pietro had no time for his dislikes. He'd decided there was no chance of making his way through the center of the pack. He raced up along the outside, passing the fourth and third lines. That was as far as he could go without risking being forced headlong into a stone wall. He jerked the reins left, cutting in, and the horse obediently veered into the throng. This angered a half-dozen riders. Obscenities in Latin, Italian, German, and French followed him. Most of these were in the form of personal insults: "Figlio di buona donna!" "Tete de merde!" "Unde ars in tine naso!" "Culibonio!" "Pezzo di merda!" "Fellator!" and so on.

  One rider bashed his horse's hind into Pietro. It could have been disastrous, but the palfrey was game for a rough ride. So was Pietro. He released the reins from the grip of his left hand, looping them over a wrist so he wouldn't lose them. He shocked his reserved father up on the balcony by thrusting a protruding thumb between the first and second fingers of his closed fist. This was the fico, the fig, a very insulting gesture indeed.

  His assailant saw the fig, grinned, and slammed into Pietro again, making him clutch at the saddle to recover himself. Pietro pulled left again, then felt something painful brush his left leg. Pietro turned his head and saw a glimpse of gold. The bastard was kicking out with his spurs! There was a trickle of blood just above Pietro's boot. Wondering why everyone went after his legs, Pietro kicked out with his heel. His spur caught and he pulled back hard, making the man yelp. Too bad, friend. But I didn't start it.

  "Porco dio!" With that joyful curse, the man beside him used his reins as a whip, flinging the leather straps at Pietro's eyes. Ducking, Pietro looked ahead. The wall was coming up quickly. He pulled hard to the left and again his palfrey responded just in time. A rush of air passed between his scalp and the marble slab. Darkness engulfed him, and he joined the crush in the tunnel.

  Just ahead, Pietro's friend jerked his horse sideways. This was dangerous. They could both careen into the tunnel wall and fall to be trampled to death. Pietro pulled back on his reins. An opening formed just to the fellow's left, and Pietro steered his horse into it, effectively swapping places. The man's reins flicked towards his face and Pietro leaned left, where his body brushed another rider.

  The light was growing. The western arch to the tunnel was only a few feet away. The reins came again, snapping in the air above Pietro's head. He ducked, reached up, and grasped his competitor's reins in his right hand. He yanked backward and down. His assailant's horse resisted and the rearing horse slammed its rider into the arched tunnel ceiling.

  The man took the blow on his shoulder and cursed, shouting, "Twenty florins to the man who unhorses that little bastard!"

  Emerging into daylight, Pietro angled his horse right and hoped no one took the offer too seriously. Everyone was too busy trying to take the lead. Ahead Pietro could see the figure of Marsilio, kicking out with spurs and reins, but much more viciously than the horseplay in the tunnel.

  "Cunnus," growled Pietro in a low voice.

  The horse raised his head.

  "Cunnus?"

  Racing full tilt to the north now, the palfrey let out a short grunt.

  "Of course," said Pietro, scandalized. But the name seemed to work. "Come on, Cunnus! Let's go!"

  It
was a wild chase, and a surprisingly straight one. The track led north, shifting briefly west along the Corso Mastino until they came to another junction. A crimson flag was easily visible fluttering in the breeze from a second story balcony. It turned them north again, and for what seemed an eternity they rode along the riverbank. To their left were houses and apartments belonging to the lower and middle classes. On their right was the curving Adige just beginning its S-bend at the top of the city. The air off the river was crisp and biting.

  Pietro was among the second tier of riders. There were a few fists, but these were random and largely without malice. Ahead, those riders who hadn't had to fight their way through the tunnel led by a good four lengths. But these pioneers were hampered by having to look everywhere for the little red flags. Among the leaders were Mari and Antony, riding neck and neck. As Pietro watched, Marsilio bolted past them, vying for first place with two other knights. One more knight was close behind this small knot of horsemen. These six ran close, eyeing each other with suspicion while they scanned the horizon for the next flutter of crimson. Marsilio's beautiful courser took long graceful strides, eating up great distances with each step. If the course had been a straight one, the Paduan would have won easily.

  Along the banks of the Adige, obstacles abounded — barrels everywhere, fishing equipment discarded hither and yon. The path was half paved and half mud. The horsemen had to dodge around short piers and ramps. It made for quite a course. To their left, on low rooftops, and their right, in boats, common citizens cheered. These were the best seats for the race, certainly better than the Arena.

  Pietro began to feel warm under his heavy fur-trimmed cloak. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, soaking his new shirt. He recognized what Carrara had known at the start. While standing about without cover in the cold chilled the bones, the race would be less tiring if one wasn't sweating under the weight of furs and weaves. Pietro did waste a moment thinking of his fine new rabbit-fur shoulder-cloak, but then he reached up a hand and released the catch.

  Looking about he saw different coloured flags — blue and gold and white and black. But no crimson. Pietro was just beginning to think the race would take them out of the city when the six riders in the lead turned west. A few seconds later Pietro saw the crimson flag hung on a sconce on the side of a tallow shop. He made the turn, only to see the leaders turning again. The next flag indicated north.

  He followed. To his right loomed the church of San Zeno. The race ran right past its front steps, with the engraved metal doors below the massive circular window. From the basilica of Verona's patron, they turned south for several city blocks, then west down the Strade di San Bernardino. For the first time passage became difficult. The two long straightaways had closed most of the gaps between the riders. Now, hedged in by the new stone wall on their right, the racers jockeyed for position, anticipating the next turn.

  Pietro was penned in against the wall by other riders. Riding close by was Antony's older brother. Irrelevantly, his name bubbled up — Luigi! Luigi Capecelatro's eyes were focused like daggers on his younger brother's back.

  Just ahead was one of the city gates, called the Porta San Sisto, but rechristened by the inhabitants of the quarter in honour of this very event. The Porta Palio was a wide affair, with five stone arches leading out to the western suburbs. Pietro saw the griffin on the top, and then a flutter of red across the square caught his eye. It was a flag, marking a hard left turn back towards the city center.

  But the riders ahead of him hadn't seen it! Mari, Antony, and the other leaders had thundered blithely on. Carrara had missed the flag by less than two feet. Pietro could take the lead.

  His problem was that, hedged in by the riders to his left, there was no way he could make it across to the gap between buildings without coming to a complete halt and letting the others race by — a tactic that would draw attention. Maybe I can pretend my horse threw a shoe…

  But just then another racer spied it and shouted. Nico da Lozzo, Luigi Capecelatro, Pietro's friend from the tunnel — all saw it and cheered, delighted to suddenly advance to the lead. As one the forty-one riders turned their horses left, east down the Strade di Porta Palio, a route that would lead them back to the Corso Mastino.

  Pietro was about to jerk his horse's reins left after the others when he happened to glance ahead. Mariotto and Antony and the rest of the former frontrunners were pushing hard as ever, not realizing they had missed the turn. Hadn't they heard the cheer?

  Squinting, Pietro finally saw what they had seen already — far ahead, just as the city walls curved inward, there was a flutter of red. Another flag? How could that be? How could they turn here and at the next block as well?

  Pietro had to make a choice. Swallowing hard, he ignored the nearer flag. Instead, he followed the six leaders. As he kept on south, he tried to put a finger on what was bothering him about that nearer flag.

  He caught sight of Marsilio's bright white farsetto over the matching caparison of the horse. The colours jogged his memory. The Paduan had ridden within a handspan of the false flag. Another image flashed into Alaghieri's mind — Marsilio almost falling out of his seat at the beginning of the race. It had seemed an accident, but what if it hadn't been? Why else would he…

  The starter's flag. Carrara had lifted it from where the Grand Butler had thrown it down. That same flag now had forty-one men racing in the wrong direction.

  Crafty Carrara. He's eliminated most of the competition. It was a good ploy. If he hadn't been hedged, Pietro would have made the turn without hesitation. Now only he and the six ahead of him stood a chance of winning. By the time the others realized they had taken a wrong turn they'd be well into the eastern portion of the city, beyond hope of finding the trail again.

  Pietro urged his horse on. With the field open around him he was able to close much of the gap between himself and the riders in the lead.

  Mariotto and Antony were pushing each other joyfully, cursing and playing. At the start of the race, both had been grimly set on winning. But as they had passed San Zeno, Antony had been unable to resist reaching across and tugging Mari's saddle horn up into his friend's crotch. Mari's response was to grab an apple from an outstretched hand in the crowd, bite, and spit the chunks of it at Antony. These antics kept either one from pulling into a decisive lead. But they weren't even halfway through the course — this was the time for fun!

  Mari pulled out his knife and flipped it into the air. Antony grabbed it and, unsheathing his own, tossed both back. A juggling match began, shimmering arcs of silver slicing the frosty air between them. The trick for the thrower was to flip in such a way that the other had to grab it by the blade. For the recipient, it was important to catch the blade without slicing through the glove.

  "Be careful!" shouted Mari. "You might need that hand on your wedding night!"

  "Shows what you know!" cried Antonio, snatching a blade from the air with three fingers. "You don't use your hands! Unless that's all you have!"

  Mari gave Antony the fig.

  Further back, Marsilio da Carrara spurred furiously on. He'd fallen back to drop the false flag and was now racing to catch up to Montecchio and Capecelatro. He had much to prove.

  The luxury of his imprisonment had made it all the more humiliating. They had been well fed, wined and dined until all hours as if they were visiting royalty, not captives. Their rooms in the Vicentine palace had been sumptuous. Uncle Giacomo took it as a sign of respect. Marsilio had not seen it that way. It was disdainful — they should have been tortured, starved. That was Marsilio's own inclination towards 'guests' of Padua. Yet the Scaliger held nothing but contempt for them, and he showed it by pampering them.

  The rain had been a tonic to Marsilio's soul. His homeland was safe from the ravages of the Veronese bastard. It was his shame that Nature, and not man, had been Padua's savior. And when his uncle had suggested meeting with the Scaliger to settle terms for peace, Marsilio had balked. If Il Grande had been any less persu
asive or powerful a man, Marsilio would have voiced his outrage in public. As it was, he argued for hours in the privacy of their rooms. Uncle Giacomo had stressed the political advantage of arranging this peace now. "Padua will see us as saviors, and our family will rise to preeminence, as is our right."

  Marsilio had countered bitterly that there was no need for peace, that with the rains blocking the roads and swelling Padua's defenses, their homeland could reform their army. Vicenza could still be theirs. Il Grande had actually laughed at his nephew. "Vicenza will never be ours, boy. Not after this defeat. Perhaps someday the Vicentines will be under Paduan rule, but not in our lifetimes. Besides," he'd added cruelly, "if we don't agree, we'll have to ruin ourselves by paying our ransom to Alaghieri. Unless you have a fortune stashed away somewhere?"

  When the short traitor da Lozzo had opened the doors to escort them to the farcical meeting, Marsilio played his part. He'd watched as his uncle discussed terms with the Scaligeri minions over a game of dice — dice! And the result proved his uncle correct. Giacomo Il Grande was now the favored name on every lip, a sure bet for Podestà. Marsilio's own name was highly praised as well, receiving reflected glory for his uncle's deeds. It was somehow worse. His uncle was allowing him to reap the benefits of the peacemaking, implying Marsilio could never attain political heights on his own.

  And now they were here, in this vaunted cesspool for some irreligious festival. Told it was his duty to show the new amity, Marsilio had resisted coming, even to the point of faking a fever. Until he remembered the famous Palio. A chance to show these trumped-up, Frenchified, German-loving, boot-licking, quasi-Italians what they lacked.

  Now his path was blocked by the shenanigans of the pretty stripling he'd tried to skewer and the oaf that had saved him. Carrara had not forgotten them, nor the shame of the mocking he'd been subjected to. He'd sat digging his nails into his palms as these two and that damned Alaghieri were knighted before his very eyes for deeds done against his homeland.